I am extremely lucky to be an aunt to eight little girls. Though we are related, they are not technically my nieces. Yet as far as they've ever known, they are my girls - one hundred percent. I was instantly smitten when the eldest of them was born and I've never looked back. It's been an awesome ride.
To say I love them fiercely is a massive understatement. I love them with a raw ferocity that overwhelms and astounds me. It is an unwavering affection coupled with feral protectiveness. It is a love that wants to propel them into healthy, happy futures and to help mold them into strong, confident people. My commitment to them is steadfast and wholehearted; I'd sacrifice anything to help them thrive.
Wren loved me the way that I love my nieces. Both in childhood and adulthood, I could count on her to be behind me. She taught me when to fight and when to forgive. I went to her for advice and a sympathetic ear countless times. Sometimes I got a pep talk, sometimes I got a kick in the butt. I always got what I needed. She didn't just love me and support me, she armed me with knowledge and perspective and hope. I try really hard to do that for the girls, even though they're awfully young for some of what I preach.
Every few days or so, my thoughts return to a conversation I had with one of the girls. In hindsight, I'm simultaneously amazed at my own wisdom and worried that a different answer might have been better. The exchange took place over a year ago, when five year old Maura was determined to keep me from catching my flight home. Each time I picked up my luggage and made to leave, she'd screech "I forgot something!" Thus far she had successfully mooched extra hugs, a joke, and an off the cuff limerick out of me while her parents rolled their eyes in the background. I was half-way out the door when she launched another offensive. "WAIT!" she hollered in a panic. "You haven't taught me the secrets to life!"
It worked. Dropping my bag, I waved off her parents' objections and scooped her into my arms. "This is important, so you've gotta listen really carefully, okay?" I asked. She nodded solemnly. "There are three secrets to life. Number one, trust your gut. Listen to your head, listen to your heart and do what's best for you. If something doesn't feel right, pay attention to that feeling. Other people can offer insight, but the final decision is yours. You already have everything you need to make the right choices for you. Trust that.
"Number two, be kind to others. Sometimes life is hard, we can help each other. Remember though, trust your gut first. You don't have to be nice or helpful to anyone who gives you bad vibes."
Maura nodded knowingly. "Yeah, like creepy people,"
"Right. The third secret to life is just one word: BELIEVE. Believe in your dreams, believe in everyday magic, believe in yourself, believe in hope, believe, believe, believe. When you get discouraged and that feels like a bunch of junk, call me. I'll help you believe again."
And with that I kissed her forehead, told her I loved her, and her mom drove like a crazy person to get me to the airport. Believe it or not, I made that flight. *grin* Barely.
Showing posts with label love. Show all posts
Showing posts with label love. Show all posts
Friday, June 11, 2010
Saturday, May 29, 2010
Singing Sand
If you read my Impeccable Misfit blog, some of this will sound familiar. Forgive me, I'm still processing. Happier posts coming soon.
This isn't getting easier. If anything, it just hurts more. You weren't supposed to die, Wren. Especially not like that. It was excrutiating to see you in immense pain, emaciated and weak, lying there limp and helpless as the cancer ravaged your body. You were our strong one. You, the stubborn, vibrant, independent, spit-fire. How could anything have defeated you? I miss your lion loyalty and rebellious spirit. I ache for your soft-spoken gentleness; your soothing words when I'm sad or feel alone. I grew up with you leading the way. You blazed the paths through the deep snow, I just followed behind and used the footholds you created. You were so powerful, so sure. I believed everything you ever told me. You never told me you were going to die.
Your mother blames the doctors. Your sisters blame our society's treatment of cancer, modern medicine in general. I blame...I don't know. Sometimes God, except that I basically told Him to fuck off after you died. It's hard to blame something I refuse to believe in. I blame the gene mutation, the poisonous combination of chromosomes that you and I share. My risk is higher than yours. Why did YOU die? Statistically, the cancer is supposed to hit me. The genetic counselor couldn't even pretend to think I'd make it through life without getting it. He kept saying "When you get cancer" instead of "If you get cancer." I was twenty-two when I sat in that room, frozen, mind reeling, the damning numbers on the page a dizzying blur. Those numbers were mine. THEY WERE NOT SUPPOSED TO BE YOURS.
I never thought you'd have the mutation too. If you have it, it's possible your sisters do too. It's possible your nieces do too. Your sons? They certainly have it and are unable to prevent passing it on to any daughters they father. We could do this sickening dance of death again and again and again. You knew that. It terrified you.
I never told you I have the gene mutation too. For a long while, I never told anyone what I learned in the genetics lab building, because it was depressing and there's nothing that can be done about it anyway. I left the lab and dumped the test results and pamphlets in a box in the back of my closet, unread. I vowed that this cancer would NEVER touch my life. I would simply refuse to permit it to. I would put it out of my mind. I did. A few months later, you got sick.
You didn't tell me you were going away, I wasn't ready. There were things left unsaid. Dammit, I wasn't ready to lose you. The cancer was supposed to be in remission. We talked about the future. We planned your 40th birthday party. It never occurred to me that you weren't going to make it! Fucking hell, Wren! Do you know how bad this hurts? Surely you must. You were the one who had to tell your children that your cancer was terminal. You were ripped away from your life and loved ones, extirpated. Your sons will get married and have children without you. You didn't want that anymore than we did. I'm so sorry, love. Sometimes I forget that you were heart-broken too.
Our nieces are delightful and amazing. They're brilliant, creative, kind, funny little people. Most of them are stubborn, like us. You'd like that. That would secretly please you. I know, because it pleases me. Sometimes, I glance at one of the girls and there it is, your grin. It always takes me by surprise. Once in a while, I catch a glimpse of you in my own reflection. I'd never before noticed the similarities in our faces. The year after you died, your mom, sisters, and I took the girls to your beach. We taught them how to make the sand sing. We held their hands and ran with them. You were supposed to be the one to teach them that. I wish you could have seen their little faces. They were awestruck by the magic of your singing sand.
You shared my adoration of the little ones. Loving them with you is one of the things I miss the most. I love them extra hard now, trying to love them for both of us..trying to make up for your absence. It hurts like hell. The girls are the biggest source of beauty and joy in my life. They talk about you. They hurt too. They don't understand why you died. I talk to them gently, trace the freckles on their cheeks and stroke their heads. I cheer them on until I'm hoarse. I throw myself full-force into loving them. I try so hard to love them for both of us. It is both the best and the most painful thing I've ever done. It is the one thing I am sure I am not fucking up in my life. Even so, all my love isn't enough, Wren. I know it isn't. My love doesn't bring you back to them. I'm unable to give them the memories and experiences with you that they would have cherished.
But when we are sad or weary or crabby, I take them to the water. I take them to your beach with the singing sand. And we run, our bare feet kicking up the sand, the way you ran before.
I love you, Wren.
This isn't getting easier. If anything, it just hurts more. You weren't supposed to die, Wren. Especially not like that. It was excrutiating to see you in immense pain, emaciated and weak, lying there limp and helpless as the cancer ravaged your body. You were our strong one. You, the stubborn, vibrant, independent, spit-fire. How could anything have defeated you? I miss your lion loyalty and rebellious spirit. I ache for your soft-spoken gentleness; your soothing words when I'm sad or feel alone. I grew up with you leading the way. You blazed the paths through the deep snow, I just followed behind and used the footholds you created. You were so powerful, so sure. I believed everything you ever told me. You never told me you were going to die.
Your mother blames the doctors. Your sisters blame our society's treatment of cancer, modern medicine in general. I blame...I don't know. Sometimes God, except that I basically told Him to fuck off after you died. It's hard to blame something I refuse to believe in. I blame the gene mutation, the poisonous combination of chromosomes that you and I share. My risk is higher than yours. Why did YOU die? Statistically, the cancer is supposed to hit me. The genetic counselor couldn't even pretend to think I'd make it through life without getting it. He kept saying "When you get cancer" instead of "If you get cancer." I was twenty-two when I sat in that room, frozen, mind reeling, the damning numbers on the page a dizzying blur. Those numbers were mine. THEY WERE NOT SUPPOSED TO BE YOURS.
I never thought you'd have the mutation too. If you have it, it's possible your sisters do too. It's possible your nieces do too. Your sons? They certainly have it and are unable to prevent passing it on to any daughters they father. We could do this sickening dance of death again and again and again. You knew that. It terrified you.
I never told you I have the gene mutation too. For a long while, I never told anyone what I learned in the genetics lab building, because it was depressing and there's nothing that can be done about it anyway. I left the lab and dumped the test results and pamphlets in a box in the back of my closet, unread. I vowed that this cancer would NEVER touch my life. I would simply refuse to permit it to. I would put it out of my mind. I did. A few months later, you got sick.
You didn't tell me you were going away, I wasn't ready. There were things left unsaid. Dammit, I wasn't ready to lose you. The cancer was supposed to be in remission. We talked about the future. We planned your 40th birthday party. It never occurred to me that you weren't going to make it! Fucking hell, Wren! Do you know how bad this hurts? Surely you must. You were the one who had to tell your children that your cancer was terminal. You were ripped away from your life and loved ones, extirpated. Your sons will get married and have children without you. You didn't want that anymore than we did. I'm so sorry, love. Sometimes I forget that you were heart-broken too.
Our nieces are delightful and amazing. They're brilliant, creative, kind, funny little people. Most of them are stubborn, like us. You'd like that. That would secretly please you. I know, because it pleases me. Sometimes, I glance at one of the girls and there it is, your grin. It always takes me by surprise. Once in a while, I catch a glimpse of you in my own reflection. I'd never before noticed the similarities in our faces. The year after you died, your mom, sisters, and I took the girls to your beach. We taught them how to make the sand sing. We held their hands and ran with them. You were supposed to be the one to teach them that. I wish you could have seen their little faces. They were awestruck by the magic of your singing sand.
You shared my adoration of the little ones. Loving them with you is one of the things I miss the most. I love them extra hard now, trying to love them for both of us..trying to make up for your absence. It hurts like hell. The girls are the biggest source of beauty and joy in my life. They talk about you. They hurt too. They don't understand why you died. I talk to them gently, trace the freckles on their cheeks and stroke their heads. I cheer them on until I'm hoarse. I throw myself full-force into loving them. I try so hard to love them for both of us. It is both the best and the most painful thing I've ever done. It is the one thing I am sure I am not fucking up in my life. Even so, all my love isn't enough, Wren. I know it isn't. My love doesn't bring you back to them. I'm unable to give them the memories and experiences with you that they would have cherished.
But when we are sad or weary or crabby, I take them to the water. I take them to your beach with the singing sand. And we run, our bare feet kicking up the sand, the way you ran before.
I love you, Wren.
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